


Essentialized Want

by LunarExo



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Possibly Unrequited Love, oh yes this is one of THOSE fics, the therion tag is more accurate as, therion in cyrus' beautiful and imperfect mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 05:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarExo/pseuds/LunarExo
Summary: Cyrus' mind is torturously good at giving him what he wants when he needs it the least.





	Essentialized Want

Cyrus was near certain he was falling in love. And it was wonderful! At least, in theory. After all, he'd never felt such intensity for another person, and after so long wondering if the act was beyond his capacities, it was admittedly a relief to know he simply had odd tastes. Or, perhaps a better term was _specific_ tastes. He supposed it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d have a thing for bad boys, but that was what he got for spending his whole life surrounded by other scholars. 

That it was one of his companions he’d fallen for was only a positive—they would surely know of the fears and doubts plaguing him, would be able to relate deeply to his tales of trial and tribulation. And so, in theory, it was a wonderful thing.

The problem, Cyrus knew, was that the very things that endeared him so hopelessly to the object of his deep affections were the very same things that made him so certain his blooming feelings were wholly, _unquestionably_ unrequited.

He wondered to himself when such feelings had taken root. His finnicky, unreliable mind proved to be troublesome in that regard, painting even their first meeting in saccharine rose-gold. He remembered in truth that Therion had been angry that day. At himself, for needing help. At Cyrus and his companions, for providing it. Then at the whole world, for being the build-up to his present predicament. But his mind refused to see reality, focusing on the first witty insult he'd thrown Cyrus' way, the memories twisting until a dry, worn down grin turned coy, the words a double entendre, packed with meaning. "You don't get out much, do you professor?" Slow and seductive on that fiendish tongue.

His thoughts pressed ever incessantly forward, and he slumped against the wall of his inn room, growing weary with himself. Therion had been insistent that Cyrus was nothing but an annoyance in his eyes— pompous, pretentious, stubborn—but he hovered close during battles, intercepting what enemies were brave enough to approach before they could strike down Cyrus, vulnerable as he was with a book strewn open on his arm. It was an honour, even then, to be able to appreciate Therion's agility in battle up close. He moved without hesitation, so fast Cyrus could barely follow his movements. Only when he was sure of victory would he let himself gloat, one of those troublingly enticing smiles on his face. It was as if his eyes cast a spell, the way Cyrus grew transfixed on his face. But he’d fall prey to any hex, should that expression turn his way. 

The scene morphed as his guard fell, his mind nearly gloating to itself as fantasy took root. The battlefield melted away, walls forming in its place. Bookshelves, a dresser, a bed all sprouting up. Even in this daydreamy haze, he recognized it as his home in Atlasdam, his bedroom. The sun was setting in this dreamy scene, and Therion stood before him. Where he normally looked sort of bored with it all, his fingers tangled into the thick fabric of his cloak with clear interest. He was smiling like a battle had been won. "You thought I wouldn't notice, Cyrus?" 

He shook his head in reality. The greatest mistake any man could make was underestimating Therion. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and the sharp mind he tucked beneath a veneer of apathy was as dangerous as any dagger beneath his cloak. It was _horribly_ arousing, and Cyrus really ought to evaluate what that meant for his health.

Instead, he shifted his attention back to the image in his mind’s eye. Therion was smiling at him, contented with Cyrus’ reaffirmation, and Cyrus sighed at the impression of fingers on his neck, stroking slow patterns that raised the fine hairs, goosebumps spreading across his arms. "It was inevitable you'd find out eventually. I hoped you wouldn't be upset when you did," the voice of himself said, distinctly him, distinctly unreal. In contrast, the short laughter Therion replied with was so real he ached, the sound clearly sampled from another memory, as sharp and true as it was. 

"The only thing I'm upset about is how long it took. I've wanted to get on my knees and stun you to silence _since we met_." Therion's words were as casual as Cyrus' mind thought they should be, but his head still hit the wall with a thump of surprise, as if he couldn't believe gall of his own fantasy. Rubbing it gently, he grimaced, and then squeezed his eyes shut tight, urging the troubling daydream on. It wasn't as if he could will the fantasies away, not when they came back louder, more incessant that he indulge. He was much too weak to his own desires.

To his great pleasure, it seemed his mind was not adverse to feeling things out slowly. An acknowledgment from his own thoughts that if he were to torment himself with such far off fantasies, he may as well do so thoroughly. The form in his mind's eye slid gentle fingers past the waistband of Therion's pants, fingers brushing his bare hip, and the thief sucked in a sharp breath. "If you'll forgive me, dearest, I'd much rather have you on your knees in a different way." Boldly, his touch slid back, cupping bare ass reverently. Therion moaned in response, airy and approving, and his long fingers tangled into Cyrus' hair to tug him closer. 

Their lips met in a hazy impression of a kiss, Therion's warm and chapped, dry skin catching on the wet corner of Cyrus' lip before he sucked the offending skin decisively, making Therion shudder in his arms. 

Not one to exist passively, Therion parted his lips, taking the first opportunity he had to suck hard on Cyrus' tongue, pulling on his hair as he did. And the sting felt real, Cyrus' scalp tingling as his hand slid lower, each inch a further fall into debauchery. The moment his fingers rubbed over the bulge in his pants, Therion's tongue on his mind, was the moment he knew Galdera would surely claim his soul.

Still, that was fine. Eternal damnation was worth it for this indulgence, this breech of trust and companionship boundaries, the thought of Therion eagerly tugging off his shirt to mouth wetly at his collarbone. His teeth would be sharp, Cyrus imagined, and he'd want to be domineering. But he'd be putty under his hands, holding him by the ass to grind against him, the firm press of Therion's erection against his thigh making his breath hitch.

"I've got oils by my bed," he muttered, and the same oil he used to please himself—that same familiar bottle, the matte coating wearing off from years of exposure—was a blur of alluring green glass as Therion turned it in his hands, suddenly _significantly_ less clothed as he laid back, beckoning Cyrus over.

He coated his fingers in the oil with practiced ease, the image of their slickness hyper realistic, so close to reality it made him twitch. But Therion hitching one bare leg up, furling out contentedly as Cyrus hovered over him—that retained it's dreamlike form. He relaxed even further as Cyrus stroked his dry hand along his inner thigh, urging his legs open, and sighed approvingly as the first slick finger slid into him. He wasn't tense, opening easily for Cyrus, and he knew in his gut that it was because Therion felt safe with him, that he _trusted_ him.

It was, after all, _his_ fantasy.

Slender fingers tugged at his pants, shoving them carelessly down while maneuvering around his own arms. Eventually Therion seemed to manage, the warm fabric replaced with cold air, fingers gripping his cock to give an experimental tug. 

In the cold of the inn room his own hand was nowhere the same as Therion's—his fingers long and dexterous, a thief's most valuable asset—but Cyrus played along with himself. He imagined Therion mouthing at his ear, squeezing at the base, "you're bigger than I thought," and then, when Cyrus jabbed at a sensitive spot, a breathy, "ah, fuck— I want it in me _now_."

Stroking himself in earnest, Cyrus groaned to himself as his fantasy Therion brought his knees up, hooking them around Cyrus' hips to tug him closer, and with a dizzying shift in perspective he was lined up to press inside. 

Therion smiled at him, soft and warm and full of love, and Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, committing the fake image to memory as he groaned out Therion's name into the empty room, the sound reverberating off the walls.

He was everything Cyrus had never known he'd needed until he was right there in his life, witty and sharp and _dangerous_ , pushing Cyrus in ways he’d never experienced, making his world bolder, brighter. He was beautiful as well, and Cyrus' mind had no issue conjuring up the way his face would furrow with the strain as Cyrus pushed into him, and the way it'd twist with pleasure when he'd pull out slowly, only to slam back in hard and sudden.

Stroking himself with reckless abandon, Cyrus lost focus with his surroundings altogether, too focused on fucking the striking, mystifying, _perfect_ man in his dreams. He'd leave scratches, Cyrus quietly hoped, Therion's name a mantra on his lips as he imagined sharp nails dragging red lines into his back, too lost in his own pleasure to control himself. 

He imagined himself lifting Therion's hips, bringing his legs together in front of his face. It blocked the view, but the first thrust was deliriously tight, and Therion's wailing moan was a sure sign of his approval. His pace matched that of his hand, increasingly frenetic as he grew closer to orgasm, Therion's breathing laboured as he cried out his pleasure. 

Cyrus blinked and the scene changed again, Therion straddling his hips and squeezing his hands tight as he fucked himself. His chest was flushed red, and Cyrus shuddered as he imagined the skin dotted with marks, proof of his thoroughness. 

As if he was really there in his mind, as if he knew Cyrus' had strayed from the perfect scene before him, Therion leaned in close, an endeared grin on his face, "are you thinking about something else right now?" 

Cyrus shook his head, imagining himself thrusting up hard, shifting their hands until he could brace himself and take over. He thought of himself jostling Therion in his lap as he thrust, Therion's eyes closing in fucked out bliss as he panted _his_ name like a prayer, like a confession.

He knew the honeyed way Therion's name spilled from his lips would be a dead giveaway to anyone who heard, undeniable proof that the feelings he held went deeper than desire. He loathed to think of his unrequited emotions as such, but as he thought of the Therion in his mind kissing him tenderly amongst all the movement, he knew it was a lost cause to pretend he was anything but deeply in love.

"I love you, gods, Cyrus—"

He was peaking, the scene growing hazy as his mind found it hard to focus, everything overloaded, reaching a crest. But Therion’s voice pushed through the fog as clear as if it’d been whispered into his own ear, and he held his breath, willing himself on.

And he came to the thought of Therion cupping his face, his name on those chapped lips as they moved together, leisurely and unhurried, loving. His hand slowed in turn, wringing his orgasm out until his legs were shaking. Sighing, Cyrus’ body slumped against the wall, before sinking fully to the floor. 

He closed his eyes, the rush of blood in his ears drowning his thoughts out. Rather than struggle with that, Cyrus resorted to calming his slightly laboured breathing, counting in his head as he breathed in, breathed out.

When the sound faded and silence claimed the room, he found that not a lingering trace of his vivid fantasy was left. A pang of longing struck him, mourning the loss of such a pleasant daydream. Still, there was little he could do, his mind steadfastly ignoring his attempts to reconjure the image of Therion settled adoringly on his lap. 

Resigned, he pulled himself to sit again, looking disdainfully at the mess on his hand. As he studied it, he felt himself frown, the shame of his act catching up to him properly. It wasn't fair to Therion to entertain these fantasies, not when he was so clearly uninterested (and so beautiful in his coyness, that traitorous part of him reminded). 

Even more, it was unfair to himself. He’d been so certain that love was supposed to be loyal, pure, _fulfilling_. Surely it wasn't supposed to be this ache, or the guilt lingering at the edge of his consciousness. But the pain remained, and so too did the thrum of affection in his veins that flared when he thought of Therion.

Not all theories held up to scrutiny, he reluctantly decided. It was just that, if he were to be honest, he’d have to admit that he wished deeply, out of every one of them, this one had.

**Author's Note:**

> my thing was 3am talks before but now its 'cyrus thinks abt therion a lot'  
> anyway this was a character study that ive written stretched over the span of several weeks that just HAPPENED to be nearly done so i spent a bit of time editing it to share because i like it goddamnit
> 
> it's like a character study but im constantly insatiably horny for cyrus so his penis is there too everyone say hi to it


End file.
